google analytics

Thursday, August 24, 2017

knots: games of ego

what is the opposite
of love-i ask.
when you know,
you find the poles

where the double-faced
god lives in between.
to fly on one wing
through holes in the wind,

blinded, without orientation,
no bird will find home
nor will a man find light:
he will meet his death,

tumbling through hell.
if no angel guides him
he will be lost
to the darkness,

sinking and falling,
falling and sinking
until gravity spits him
out the other side

in the waste land
where nothing exists
but ghosts and mirrors,
wrecks of dreams,

and he will not reach
the well, the water of life
as he could not believe:
is giving up sin

or human condition,
born in longing, at night,
in suffering pain,
a contraction of hope

in the juice of the buds
of his soul, deprived
of water, caught in
loops of his mind?

do we all fall
in the illusion of self
or can we burn and 
turn out of ashes?

i cannot shed my skin,
not separate from
this body given to
me by the stars:

they are dead, i am 
alive, i bleed and bleed.
between wanting and giving
there are pauses, silence,

i pray for music, for joy,
but i don't know my peace
nor the depth of prayer:
how can i let love flow

when i only wish to go
to the sea, the sky,
the milky way: to shoot me
for going without weight.

i am too much for me
and for you. how can
i find my other wing:
i buried it, i buried it

and forgot the place
i don't want to remember.
memory is cruel, and
mercy is to forget.

only imagination can
let love live or die,
and the heart talks
without one word.

in the waves i drown,
to ride them is hard,
and many is the times
when giving up

looks sweeter than
to stay and swim
when we don't know
the way to the shore.

all suicide is forgiven,
all destruction means
nothing, all failure
is part of the journey.

kill me, death,
chase me, wind,
kiss me, love
and let me be

strong and tender,
let me grow and blossom,
give me shelter,
i give my breath and blood,

my fruits, my scent,
my petals, my essence
until it will be time
to go.

i need water
to dilute my acid,
space in the garden,
the hand of the gardener.

without i will turn
a weed, killing all
with words and words,
picked up by strange birds

who will spit my seed
in the deserts, between
stones and windmills,
a meaningless dance.

i am an old man,
the fingers of time
move, i do not wish
to die bitter,not bitter,

i step to the side,
my mouth a sword,
i let all pass:
can i smile?










































from Angeiras via Peniche to Lisboa and Cacilhas